Their Only Crime
by Knilb17
Summary: Everyone's a victim...until they commit their own crime. Can two sufferers of life’s unrelenting disappointment save one another from their own desperation before it’s too late? Will what they risk be their first and last real crime?
1. Chapter 1

Title: Their Only Crime Rating: R Tagline: Everyone's a victim…until they commit their own crime.  
Summary: Can two loveless victims of life's unrelenting disappointment save one another from their own desperation before it's too late? Will what they end up risking be their first and last real crimes?

Okay, so a little exposition…

This is a drastically AU story. Besides their appearances, the characters portrayed in this story have almost nothing in common with those from the series.

Ross' life is in complete disarray. He's a recovering alcoholic with mild drug tendencies (note: by mild, I mean the occasional joint or muscle relaxant) who's divorced and has no visitation rights to his daughter because of his drug dependencies. He's living alone in a cramped studio apartment in the East Village. His only "job" entails a partnership with 2 other guys scamming small domestic shipping companies over the Internet. He's overindulged in many of life's addictive vices, including love, and lost every time…and everything.

Rachel's lifestyle matches his only in mindset. She, too, is miserable and lonely. However, she's also a high-powered stock broker living in a spacious, trendy loft on Park Avenue. She's never been married, but does entertain several different casual lovers. She's strong-willed but tragically passionless, possessing no real attachment to or sentiment for anything in her life, including her many male conquests. She was once driven by the elusiveness of material success, having never settled for less, but subsequently having never experienced much, either. Unlike Ross, she never indulged in much of anything. Now, at the age of 35, her life's come to a seeming stalemate. When she realizes that she's taken any real chances that weren't career-related, her perception of her own life becomes regretful and dismal.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO "It was in another lifetime, one of toil and blood,  
when blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud.  
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.  
'Come in,' she said,  
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'" -- "Shelter From The Storm", Bob Dylan OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The Weathervane Pub 115 Avenue C New York City November 2, 2004 10:47 p.m.

He spun the gold-platted ring on the counter like a dradle.

He watched it dance across the splintered wood for a few seconds, alive and erratic and spontaneous, having flickered to life with the snap of his fingers, only to inevitably die and fall flat once time and gravity both took their toll.

Fitting, he thought morbidly, taking a swig of his beer.

A hand landing suddenly on his shoulder startled him and he turned to find his friend Jerry pulling up a stool beside him at the bar, setting a matching glass mug of beer down beside Ross'. Jerry was a business partner of his, manipulative and charming and savvy and attractively bruiting, but otherwise not the type of guy to maintain many friends. Ross wasn't sure he'd even be friends with him if it weren't for their partnership. Then again, Ross wasn't exactly maintaining many friends these days, himself.

"You still carrying that thing around?" Jerry asked, nodding towards the ring. Ross shook his head once, his neck snapping like from the involuntary jerk of a muscle spasm.

"Not mine," he whispered, just before reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. Jerry's eyes widened a bit and he cocked his eyebrow in confusion.

"Cindy's?" Ross nodded, still not looking up from the countertop.

"What? The bitch mail it back to you or something?"

"Hey," Ross cautioned, snapping his head to face his friend, his tone firm. "That's my daughter's mother." Jerry shrugged, taking a sip from his frothy beer, smiling somewhat deviously through his teeth.

"Doesn't stop her from being a bitch."

Ross bit his lip and shook his head disapprovingly, but ultimately knew he couldn't argue. He turned his attention back to the ring and sighed deeply. Jerry had almost been right. She hadn't mailed it, but rather slid it under his door sometime during the night. He'd awoken that morning to find an unaddressed envelope lying on the floor in his entryway. Its sole content was the simple gold band, slightly smaller and more delicate than his own. The envelop smelled faintly of her, but he doubted that was intentional. Cindy had never been one for sentiment. She'd never been one for goodbyes, either, so the gesture was fitting.

"You coming out with us tonight?" Jerry asked. By now, he'd lit his own cigarette, and its smoke mixed with that of Ross' above the two men. It hovered around them in an opaque cloud, like the ones all sad men in seedy bars hide behind.

"I thought I was out," Ross deadpanned, taking a drag. "Eh, maybe for you, old man," Jerry joked, knowing perfectly well they were both only 36, though Ross' constant 5-oclock shadow and sad, defeated demeanor often made him mistakable for someone 4 or 5 years older. "The boys and I are going to Masse tonight. It's Tequila Beach Friday. What do you say?"

"I say you're all a bunch of dirty old men who'll go anywhere where there're free drinks and women half your age," he rebutted, shaking his head in disapproval, but his eyes smiled with a hint of teasing sarcasm.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Jerry protested in mock defense. "Who're you calling old?"

Ross couldn't help but chuckle at this, nodding in both assent and dismissal. He ashed the spent cigarette in the small glass tray on the bar and grabbed his jacket. "I think I'm going to pass on 'Sorority Night' at Chuck-E-Cheese, but give 'the boys' my best," he finalized, patting Jerry on the back as he flopped a few bills down on the bar and swiveled off his stool.

"Oh, come on, you know you're just going to end up sitting alone in your apartment, drowning in your self-pity," Jerry called after him. Just before Ross exited the door, he turned around and smiled weakly.

"Like a real adult."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

6117 Park Avenue Apartment 2000 New York City November 2, 2004 10:47 p.m.

"Oh, Colin!"

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and twisted the lavender sheets in her balled-up fists, reveling in the agonizing pleasure that was building between her thighs. She was right on the cusp. She could feel it expanding inside her, so close to overflowing and igniting her entire body with that brilliant, blinding, deafening pleasure.

She was doused in sweat, the infinitesimal droplets of perspiration making her tanned skin shimmer in the dim light of the bedroom, her body stark naked atop the covers, the muscles beneath her flat stomach quivering in anticipation. She was concentrating maddeningly hard, and she knew Colin was, too…

Too hard.

After another minute of nothing, she sighed deeply from frustration and opened her eyes, disappointment flooding her face. She cleared her throat and tapped Colin on the shoulder. He looked up at her and she shook her head at him. He nodded, obviously not too concerned or apologetic.

"Sorry, babe," he half-heartedly offered, climbing up the length of the bed to plop down beside her and reach for his Sports Illustrated on the nightstand. "Sometimes it just doesn't happen, you know?"

Oh, she knew. She knew all too well. In fact, it had never happened with Colin. Or Steve. Or Dan. Or Neal. Truth be told, it hadn't happened in longer than she cared to remember. She'd fake them on occasion, of course, either from politeness or embarrassment. She wasn't sure which. She'd held high hopes for Colin, with his perfectly-toned swimmer's body and accelerated proficiency in all other sexual areas. Had she been honest with herself, though, even Colin never really stood a chance. Generally gratifying or not, he was too selfish and shallow a lover (and person) to ever truly be able to satisfy her. All it took was one look at him sitting across the bed, more enthralled with that stupid magazine than he'd ever been with her, and she knew it was over. It was over with all the rest of them, too. Who was she fooling? None of them did anything for her, anymore.

They probably never had.

She got up from the bed and walked into her closet, wrapping herself in the lavender silk robe that matched her bed sheets and headed for the kitchen without a word. While waiting for the water to boil for her tea, she paused to survey her apartment.

An elevator that opened up right into a living room adorned with expensive modern art, vibrant tropical plants, immaculately polished hardwood floors, a fireplace, a spotless white sectional couch and matching chairs, a flat screen plasma TV mounted on the wall, and even a grand piano, though only one of her few friends actually played. The kitchen was huge and spotless and mostly stainless steal and cutting-edge technology. She had two more bedrooms than she needed, one of which she'd turned into her office, though she hardly ever worked from home. She had a sun room, a balcony, and a patio with a swimming pool and hot tub. She had so many things. So many things, she thought to herself, closing her eyes and losing herself in the moment.

She was only knocked back to reality by the high-pitched hissing of the kettle.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

42 St Mark's Place Apartment 3C New York City November 3, 2004 1:32 a.m.

"Do you want the money or not?"

Ross was standing in the doorway of his apartment, his arm outstretched towards his ex-wife, a wad of cash clenched tightly in his fist. He never thought he'd find himself in this position, with anything tangible to offer her. It was one of the reasons she'd left in the first place. There was at least something familiar about the scene, though.

There were tears in her eyes.

"Ross, I can't take that money."

"Why the hell not? It's for Katie," he reasoned, his voice softening instinctively when he uttered his daughter's name. He could never say it harshly, no matter how indignant he was.

"I know, and that's why I can't take it. I know where you got it. It's dirty money, Ross."

She shook her head, struggling to keep her voice steady. Her lips were already trembling. The worst part was that he didn't even know why, anymore. She always cried when she talked to him, now. Always.

"Look," he stated firmly, rubbing his face with his free hand, leaning against the doorframe tiredly. "There's over $500 here. It doesn't matter where it came from. It buys food and pays the rent." She said nothing. She didn't move, only stared back, her eyes desperate and glossy and her cheeks tear-stained. His were unreadable, as always.

"We both know you're going to take it," he finally declared, as if it were the final word. And it was. She sighed and closed her eyes against the perceived dishonestly and desperation of what she was doing, and took the money.

Ross was about to close the door without another word when she stopped him, placing her hand on the door with the chipped green paint. Their eyes met again…locked. Silence pierced their eardrums. She shook her head, something almost like sympathy showing in her eyes, now.

"Why are you doing this, Ross? Why have you chosen this life for yourself?" she asked, still shaking her head in disbelief. He swallowed and averted his eyes but said nothing. "You're so much better than this," she finished.

At this, he regained eye contact, staring her down fiercely. There were so many things he wanted to say. He wanted to scream that he hadn't chosen this life for himself, but that SHE had. SHE had done this to him. SHE had turned him into this torn, fractured shell of a man. His life had been so much better. THEIR life had been better. He didn't say any of those things, though. He choked them down, along with his sorrow and regret, until nothing remained but hostility and bitterness. That was the way he liked it.

"Just not good enough to come home to," he whispered, his tone even but the intention biting. When she did not respond— could not— he closed the door.

He padded back across his apartment to his kitchen in the dark. On the way, he discarded the black t-shirt he'd been wearing for a thermal long-sleeved shirt thrown across the back of the couch. It was getting colder and the heat wouldn't get turned on in his apartment until the 10th. He supposed that was the price he paid for…not paying a price. He couldn't sleep anymore. It was something he'd just become accustomed to. It had been happening for years, slowly degenerating until he could no longer get more than 5 hours a night. He'd become close acquaintances with late night infomercials, 24-hour take-out, spy novels and pushups. He tried all of them to quell his boredom, but none ever made him tired.

After getting a glass of water, he made his way into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the light. The only source of illumination in the entire apartment was almost always the small nightlight in the bathroom. It provided just barely enough eerie yellow light to catch his reflection in the mirror. He stopped and examined himself for a moment, taking a deep breath.

The first thing he noticed was that all the late night pushups must have been doing him some good. His upper body was well-defined, especially in his biceps and chest. His skin was still faintly olive colored, even in the winter, and his eyes were a piercing green. They almost scared him, shining out so brightly in the dark. He needed a haircut, he considered. His dark brown locks were tousled and fell across his eyes. Worn black sweatpants hung loosely from his lips. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't been eating as much, lately, either. Though he was technically in better shape than he'd ever been, he knew the means was killing his body. All the cigarettes, the alcohol, the sleep deprivation, the over-working and under-eating…the pills.

He closed his eyes against the thought of them. When he'd started taking those things, almost 3 years ago, was when the insomnia had started. A friend from work— his real work, back when he'd had a real job— had given them to him when they'd both started working late into the night. He said they'd make him more alert and less tired. He forgot to mention that they were extraordinarily addicting. It had only taken a week's worth and he'd been hooked. That had been the beginning of his unraveling.

In many ways, it had been the end of his marriage.

He'd stopped coming to bed with Cindy, complaining of not being tired, and soon after that, he stopped coming to bed hardly at all. When she caught him with the pills and confronted him, he confessed everything and promised to get help. When he broke that promise…that's when the real problems began.

They stopped communicating the way they used to. A wall had been built up between them, growing denser and more impermeable by the day. Eventually, they were hardly speaking at all. He moved into the guest bedroom. The one time he actually tried quitting had been a miserable disaster, and to punish himself for the failure, he'd begun drinking. Heavily. In hindsight, they'd been divorced ever since that night he popped the first pill. In reality, it didn't happen until he came home to find her in bed with another man. He clenched his jaw and balled his fists through the aching pain and betrayal of the memory. It still hurt, even now. The image of her naked beneath the covers with that bastard would be forever branded in his memory. Sure, he hadn't known her (or himself) anymore…but he'd still loved her.

Not anymore, he thought, opening his eyes and forcing himself to meet his own gaze in the mirror. He wouldn't think about that anymore. It was in the past. He was on another road, now, and for better or worse, it was the decisions he'd made that got him here. It was the circumstance he'd have to live with, because it was all he had anymore. He'd stay awake through the lonely nights. He'd work the dirty jobs, and keep the crooked friends, and live in the seedy bars, and he'd hate himself through it all.

But no matter what, he was done playing the victim.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Shyla Lounge 72 W 70th Street New York City November 3, 2004 9:56 p.m.

Rachel swirled the olive skewer rhythmically around in the clear beverage, rotating her wrist in slow circles, staring vacantly at the half-empty glass. As her wrist moved, her three silver bangle bracelets jingled, reflecting small diamonds of light from the dimly lit lounge. She didn't know how long she'd been sitting that way.

"Anyone home?" A soothing female voice stirred her and she looked up to find Sarah, the woman she'd come with that night, sitting down across her from. She was holding a Cosmopolitan in each hand, one of which she sat down in front of Rachel. She smiled mischievously.

"Here. I thought you could use something a little more…bubbly."

"Bubbly?" Rachel smirked, bringing her glass to her lips and finishing off her first drink.

"Thank you, but I think I'll stick to the gin and tonic."

"Suit yourself. I, on the other hand, prefer to drink like a lady," Sarah teased, smiling widely before taking her first sip, licking her lips when she was done.

"Talk to me again after you've had 3 of those," Rachel rebutted, matching Sarah's smile. "You'll be about as much a lady as my Uncle Richard."

Sarah chuckled and nodded, taking another sip, surveying the bar out of her periphery. She and Rachel tried to get together at least one Saturday of every month, and they usually ended up here. It was up and coming in trendy Manhattan bars, having recently been featured in some high profile magazine for attracting the occasional celebrity, but they'd been coming here for years, long before its heyday, making them both feel about as old as dirt. Neither mentioned that, of course.

"So, tell me more about this Colin," Sarah began, giggling girlishly and bouncing, the way she tended to do when talking about men or sex. Rachel's demeanor, however, immediately fell flat. Sarah sensed this. "Uh oh. Sore subject?"

"Mmm, kind of. Actually, you know what? Not really," Rachel revealed, shrugging detachedly. "I almost wish it were," she considered aloud.

"What'd you mean?"

"I don't know," Rachel sighed, pushing her Cosmo away. She threw her hands in the air dismissively and shrugged. "I just mean…none of them are ever sore subjects."

"None of them? You mean, like, Dan and Steven and Ne—"

"Neal, and Harry, and John, and yes! All of them! None of them! I just…God," Rachel trailed off, shaking her head. She leaned forward and propped her elbows up on the table, burying her head in her hands and breathing deeply. "I just can't feel anything anymore," she finally clarified.

Sarah, a little taken aback by Rachel's somewhat of an outburst and not sure what to do, placed her hand gently over Rachel's and brought her hands down from her face. She wasn't crying, but there was a far-off look in her eyes, like she was just now discovering this about herself…seeing herself from far away. Both women were quiet for a long time.

"Has it ever occurred to you that I'm your only female friend?" Sarah finally asked quietly, a little hesitantly. Rachel rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair.

"Sarah, just because you used to be my psychologist, that doesn't mean I still need to hear this psycho-babble bullsh—"

"No, I'm serious. Is that intentional?"

"Is what intentional?" she asked, frustrated and obviously uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

"All the men. The absence of women. You surround yourself with people who are not naturally comparable to you— who you wouldn't feel an innate competitiveness with. Do you think that's intentional?"

"I don't even think that's true, much less intentional," Rachel objected, averting her eyes.

"Do you feel threatened by women?" Sarah asked. Rachel scoffed at this, sure she wasn't serious. When she met the other woman's gaze, though, she was faced with nothing but seriousness. The direness of the conversation had quickly escalated.

"I'm sitting here with you, aren't I?"

"Yeah, and like you said, I used to be your psychologist. I already know all the dirt," she half-joked, smiling weakly. "Hey, you brought this up, not me. I'm just trying to help."

"I know," Rachel admitted, nodding. "I just don't think I see how not having more women friends has anything to do with my…other issues."

"Rachel, it could have everything to do with it. Maybe you feel threatened by women—intrinsically competitive with them. With your career at the forefront of your priorities, maybe you feel that, as a woman in the workplace, you—"

"I think that's the problem," Rachel interrupted, her voice weak and faintly sad. Faintly regretful. "My career. My career's always been 'at the forefront of my priorities'. I think that's the problem."

"You're a very successful woman in a man's world. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Maybe there is, though," she proposed, her voice more firm now. "I mean, look at me, Sarah. I'm 35, I've never been married, no kids, an endless string of unsatisfying non-monogamous relationships. It doesn't take a psychologist to see that my life isn't exactly where it should be."

"Rachel, what did I used to tell you when you brought this up, hm? There's no 'should be'. There's only 'is'. This is where your life is, and these are the decisions you've made. If you want to change something now, then do it, but there's nothing you should be," her friend offered sympathetically. Rachel nodded but her expression remained stern. She looked up from the table, her eyes glossy with the beginning of tears.

"I should be happy." 


	2. Chapter 2

42 St. Mark's Place Apartment 3C New York City November 4, 2004 10:13 a.m.

Ross awoke with a start, flying to a sitting position so quickly that it made his head spin. Literally. A hundred white flashes of lightening went off inside his mind, his temples pulsing. He closed his eyes and grimaced against the pain.

Where was he? What time was it?

The last thing he remembered was a bottle of wine in his hand, inverted, the liquid pouring past his lips and settling like hot acid in his stomach. And the taste of cigarettes and coffee. And the smell of perfume. His eyes settled on the coffee table. A used condom wrapped lay accusatorily beside the remote control.

"Jesus Christ," he sighed, shaking his head in regretful shame and moving towards the bathroom.

Not bothering with the lights, he grabbed an Advil and cupped his hand beneath the faucet for water to wash it down with. He braced himself against the sink, finding it difficult to look up into the mirror. He didn't want to see what was there. Whatever it was, he wasn't going to like it. He'd never done anything like that before. The closest he'd ever come was a one-night-stand in college, and what he'd felt after that wasn't even half of what he was feeling now. He struggled to recover some memory of the previous night's events.

He'd come home from the bar even more dejected than when he'd left for it, if that were possible. He'd started drinking and hadn't stopped until he was fitful and uninhibited enough to chuck Cindy's ring from his 3rd floor balcony. He'd hoped to hear the sound it made when it hit the street. He couldn't remember now whether it made a sound at all.

He was lonely. He was lonely and angry and bitter and desperate, and he felt too old and too young for his own life, both at the same time, and he'd had enough. Somehow, he supposed he thought he could purge all of those feelings (or at least momentarily forget about them) with the wine and the woman. So he'd drunk a bottle and dialed a number.

And now he felt even emptier than before.

And dirtier. He returned to the bathroom and turned on the shower, stripping himself of his clothes and throwing them in a pile in the corner. He briefly considered burning them, but then figured it wasn't worth the effort. Under the steamy spray of the water, he scrubbed his skin until it turned red. Part of him wished he could just scrub off the entire first layer and start over. It was the closest he'd get to starting over, now, he thought.

Once out of the shower, he threw on a pair of dark brown khakis and a white long-sleeved shirt, towel-drying his hair for only a few seconds before giving up. He even shaved, which was quickly becoming merely a bi-weekly operation. He wouldn't eat breakfast, though. He hardly ever got hungry anymore. Other than that, finally able to look himself in the eye in the mirror, he felt almost normal.

Then he remembered what day it was.

It was Sunday the 4th. Shit. Tonight he was supposed to stakeout some big charity event on Wall Street with Jerry for a potential leak in their 'business'. Neither Jerry nor Ross knew much about it, but their boss had it in his head that their latest conquest was onto their scam and that the informant was 'on the inside'. Ross almost chuckled even thinking about it. The very notion that what they were doing was a legitimate business, warranting terms like 'inside job' or 'information leak', was beyond absurd. Maybe the rest of them liked to lie to themselves about it, but Ross had come to terms with the harsh reality of their job a long time again.

They were con artists. Pure and simple.

Frankly, he was surprised they hadn't already been caught, having been doing it for almost 2 years. The prospect of having to go to this thing both sickened and frightened him. Sure, he was honest with himself about the nature of his job, and he'd come to terms with it, but that didn't mean he took pride in it. He did it for the easy money. It still made him feel like a failure and a phony, though, and both of those feelings would be heightened tonight.

He dreaded it.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Bank of Manhattan Trust Building 40 Wall Street New York City November 4, 2004 9:33 p.m.

The ballroom was decorated elegantly, with twinkling lights and polished surfaces and ice sculptures and white tablecloths and red rose centerpieces. Ambient classical music hummed softly in the background as lavishly-dressed men and woman, most of whom were in their late 40s or over, laughed and drank and danced. It was extraordinary.

It was miserable.

Rachel leaned stiffly against the emergency exit door in the far back corner of the room, hiding out of sight from the prying eyes of old, dirty, crooked politicians and the judgmental whispers of their wives. How was it that she was now in her 30s, had been doing this for over a decade, and still felt like someone's little sister or mistress? She was either overlooked entirely or stared down for being anything less than a man or dressed in Ann Taylor.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a simple long black dress with thin straps and a slit up one side. Her hair was down and straightened, a silky sheet of light brown that cascaded around her shoulders and framed her face. It was hardly innocent, but certainly didn't deserve the death stares she'd been receiving all evening. It was always like this, just because she refused to placate these condescending bastards. She was a lot of things, but she wasn't phony, and she wasn't intimidated easily. She was young and attractive and she'd dress her age, even if it was half that of most of these people.

Screw 'em.

Just then, she noticed a fellow outcast mingling amongst the crowd on the dance floor. It was immediately obvious that he stuck out like a sore thumb, being so young. The second thing she noticed was that he looked a bit bewildered, if not sad, his eyes downcast and his smile forced. She'd never seen him at one of these things before.

She watched him maneuver about the crowd, shying away timidly when bumping into someone, shuffling his feet awkwardly, constantly checking his watch. Wow, she thought. He must look how I feel. Hell, he must look how I looked at my first one of these things. Seeing that little bit of herself in him formed an immediate connection inside her, like a tiny piece of invisible string linking them together amidst the crowd. She smiled weakly.

Before she knew it, she had pushed away from the doorway and was making her way across the room, towards this mysterious stranger with hair and eyes the color of chestnuts and a demeanor just as dark. She didn't know why she was doing this, but almost felt as if she didn't have a choice. Something about him spoke to her, ignited something inside her, which was a hell of a lot more than she could say for most things these days.

"Excuse me," she cooed softly, touching his forearm to get his attention. She must have startled him, because his neck snapped around quickly, his eyes locking with hers.

Wow, she thought. She hadn't expected to see such ferocity there, judging by how timid and unassuming he'd seemed from across the room. Those eyes were anything but unassuming, though. They probed her, raking their way up and down her body. She was so captivated that she left her hand on his arm, the presence of mind to remove it having been momentarily numbed by the unexpected intensity of the moment. It was like time had stopped.

"Hi," he replied, his voice hesitant. He must think I'm one of them, she thought.

"You looked bored," she explained, smiling warmly, hoping the observation would accredit her with something— set her apart from the rest of these stiffs. His face showed no evidence of this, however. In fact, it didn't show evidence of anything. His expression was like stone. He still seemed uncomfortable.

"Oh, no, this is…"

"…terrifying?" she offered, smiling again. This time, he smiled too.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," he admitted, nodding absentmindedly. "Am I that transparent?"

"Oh, don't worry," she answered dismissively, shaking her head. "By now, even the ones who would have paid attention to you are too plastered to notice."

His eyes dimmed at the words 'paid attention to you', like she'd offended or even scared him. He looked like a dear in headlights, nervous and confused at the same time. It was like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It was all she could do not to smile. It was quite adorable.

"Oh, no, I just mean…nevermind," she chuckled, deciding to leave it alone. The poor kid was already nervous enough. She was obviously only making it worse. Looking up at him again, she extended her hand and smiled. "I'm Rachel."

Hesitantly, he took it, his eyes still skeptical and anxious. He smiled gawkily. "Ross. Nice to meet you."

As he let her hand go, she found herself wishing that he hadn't. No matter how uncomfortable he seemed, something about him was making HER very uncomfortable, and in a very unsettling yet welcomed way that she wasn't sure she'd ever experienced before. He seemed familiar yet mysteriously, alluringly strange at the same time. His timidity and vulnerability were refreshing. Most of the people she came in contact with these days were too busy kissing their own asses and admiring their own reflections to even walk straight. Something about him…moved her.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been moved.

She decided to take a chance.

"Hey, listen, Ross, you wouldn't want to maybe get out of here, would you?" she whispered, her voice weak but hopeful. She didn't know why she'd said it or where she wanted to go or what she wanted to do, but some part of her wanted to stay with him…and away from these people.

"Oh, I, um…" he stammered, obviously surprised by her question. He looked as if he were really rolling over the possibility inside his mind, his gaze far-off and thoughtful, before his face fell to stone again. "I actually have to be going."

She hadn't really been expecting that. To be honest, not many men turned her down, no matter the circumstance. She wasn't used to the feeling of not getting what she asked for, and needless to say, she didn't care too much for it. Though she didn't have much experience in the field, somehow, coming from him, even if he was just some stranger, she thought the sting of rejection was probably more hurtful than usual.

"Oh…well…okay then. In that case, I guess I'll be seeing you around, Ross." She tried her hardest to smile and extended her hand once more. Though he returned the smile through tightly closed lips, he did something else that seemed incongruous in comparison. He leaned in close to her and, holding her extended hand tightly in his, lowered his voice to an intimate whisper.

"I hope so." His breath was hot against her ear and his tone smiled.

As she watched him turn and disappear into the crowd, her mouth agape and her head feeling inexplicably light, she felt something between her fingers. She looked down to find what looked like a business card.

Docks Bar & Grill 600 3rd Avenue New York, NY

Scribbled messily beneath that was a single, hand-written word.

Midnight.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Shit.

Fucking shit.

Holy fucking shit.

What had he just done? That was not smart. In fact, that was the opposite of smart. He might as well just handcuff himself and sit down in the back of the nearest cop car and save himself the go-between.

"Ross, will you slow down?" Jerry called from several yard behind him on the sidewalk. He turned to find his friend running after him wearing a tux that looked only slightly more ridiculous on him than Ross' looked on himself. When he finally caught up, he looked very confused, if not a little angry. "What the HELL was that, man?"

"I don't know," Ross answered, shaking his head, his mind still racing and his nervous eyes giving that fact away. Why had he done that? What could have possibly made him think it would be a good idea?

"No, come on, man, something's up. Did you find the guy? What happened?" Jerry questioned eagerly, still out of breath from chasing his friend for almost 5 blocks.

"Jerry, you can't tell Bill," Ross finally relented, but his voice nonetheless still apprehensive.

"Tell him WHAT? Jesus, have you lost your fucking mind?"

"Maybe," Ross deadpanned, nodding. Jerry's narrowed his eyes and tilted his head in confusion.

"What?"

"I gave someone my real name…" he whispered.

"Jesus, man, is that it? Just your first name? That's not a big—"

"And the address at the docks," he finished, looking down in shame. Jerry's eyes grew to the size of golf balls.

"WHAT? Who? Wh…wh…WHY?" he yelled, now gesturing broadly, attracting the attention of bystanders.

"Shhhh," Ross warned, looking around nervously. "Lower your voice!"

"May I ask WHY?" he whisper-yelled, in that way that was harsh enough to be angry but not above a normal decibel.

"I don't know!" Ross admitted, burying his face in his hands. "It was this woman…" he trailed off, shaking his head.

"Ah, Jesus, Ross. If you wanted to fuck her, you should have given her a drink, not your whole fuckin' life story! What are you going to do?"

"It wasn't like that," Ross corrected, shaking his head and ignoring Jerry's last question entirely.

"She was…I don't know. I don't know why I did it, man," he admitted, averting his eyes. "I just…I had to see her again."

"You couldn't have given her, I don't know, YOUR address? Why the docks? You know you could get us all thrown in jail, right? I mean, you do realize that?"

Ross sighed and nodded, running a hand quickly through his hair. Of course he realized that. That, along with the intense blue shade of her eyes, was the only thing he could think about. He didn't know what had possessed him to do it. When she'd asked if he wanted to 'get out of here', his immediate reaction had been suspicion, just as he'd been told it should be if anyone approached him. That inclination had quickly given way to something else—something much more selfish.

He'd felt excited.

Her hair had been so shiny and perfect, and her lips so red, and her eyes so blue, and her skin so tan, and her dress so elegant and classy, and he'd lost it the moment those first few velvety words had escaped her perfect mouth. In all his life, he'd never even talked to a woman like that, much less had one approach HIM. She looked like an angel and a celebrity and an illusion and everything else elusive and unattainable and beautiful.

He knew he couldn't accept her request and leave the party with her. While he had no real loyalty to the 'assignment', Jerry was his friend, and he couldn't just ditch him. Then there was always the possibility that, despite her breathtaking beauty, the woman really WAS onto him and leaving with her would only further incriminate him. Mostly, though, he'd just been too surprised and numbed by her request that he'd wimped out. As soon as he'd declined, though, and saw the way her face had fallen, he'd quickly begun back-peddling in his mind, wracking his brain for a way to rectify the situation.

He'd known he had to see her again.

Then, he'd remembered the card in his pocket. Their boss, Bill, had stolen a handful of them from the restaurant when they'd started doing business at the docks behind it. He'd write various times on the bottoms and covertly hand them off to Ross or Jerry or whoever else when he wanted to have a secret, impromptu meeting. Ross had just happened to be still carrying this one from a meeting staged earlier in the week, and it had been the only way to give her a location and time without saying it aloud.

It had been his only chance of seeing her again.

He'd known all along it was stupid, but he had to take that chance.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Docks Bar & Grill 600 3rd Avenue New York City November 5, 2004 12:00 a.m.

When she stepped out of the cab, her skin was met with the cool chill of a breeze coming off the water. Since she'd gone without a jacket that night, so her only defense against the cold was her two hands rubbing friction into her arms, and she couldn't help but feel a little overdressed in her sleek black gown, standing in front of what appeared to be a renovated fish market.

She was definitely having second thoughts.

She checked the address on the card, almost hoping she had the wrong place. The area was shady and damp and poorly lit and smelled of fish, the only commercial building for blocks being the grimy, scantily populated bar she was standing outside of. She looked around for signs of him and saw none. Maybe this wasn't the smartest idea. She didn't even know this guy… Just as she turned back toward the street to hail a cab, she felt two big, warm hands on her shoulders and jumped with a start.

"Easy," came a masculine voice from behind her, the feeling of warm breath tickling her ear. When he stepped around to face her, she was met with those sad poppy-dog eyes for the second time that evening. He smiled feebly. "Sorry I'm late."

"Oh, um…that's okay. What is this place?" she asked, a bit skeptically, nodding toward the hole-in-the-wall bar behind them.

"Yeah, I bet you don't come to places like this often, huh?" he wagered, his smile broadening. She smiled black.

"Well, it's no Ritz Carlton, that's for sure," she admitted, looking back over her shoulder at the damp alleyway leading to the docks behind the restaurant. "They're probably running some kind of con business out of the back of this place," she joked.

He obviously didn't find it too amusing, however. His face immediately fell at her words and eyes began darting about wildly. She took note of this and, afraid she may have offended, placed her hand on his arm and shook her head.

"Relax, I was just kidding."

"So do you want to go inside?" he asked quickly, changing the subject. "I know it doesn't look like much, but they make a mean Singapore Sling," he offered, his eyes softening at her.

"What the hell?" she laughed, deciding to throw caution to the wind and following him towards the entrance. Though she'd never heard of this place or a 'Singapore Slinger', it was new and exciting…just like him. Something about the combination of spontaneity, irrationality and danger made this unknowable situation (not to mention this man) all the more appealing. She'd never done anything like this before. Maybe it was time to try something new…

The inside of the bar was not betrayed by its exterior. It was just as crummy on the inside as the façade might have suggested. The thick stench of cigarette and cigar smoke overwhelmed all other senses. She was the only woman in the place, as s few old men were scattered about the bar and tables, either passed out or well on their well. All alone.

They sat down at the bar and Ross, without asking, ordered them both a legendary Singapore Slinger. She watched him discard his tuxedo jacket and bowtie, loosening the collar and rolling up the sleeves. His slightly tousseled hair and faint 5 o'clock shadow gave him an appealing air of both danger and vulnerability. Not to mention his eyes. She hadn't stopped staring at them since they sat down. Finally, he seemed to notice, turning his attention toward her and smiling. "What?" he asked, genuinely wondering what she was thinking. She shook her head to stir herself from her reverie, blushing slightly for having been caught.

"Oh, it's nothing. I was just, um…thinking," she whispered, clearing her throat nervously.

"'Bout what?" he asked, picking up his glass of lime-flavored gin and brandy and taking a sip. He slung his arm casually over the back of her stool.

"Well, I guess about the fact that I don't know much about you, Mr…" she trailed off, realizing she didn't even know his last name, punctuating her point. He chuckled and nodded.

"You actually don't know ANYTHING about me," he corrected, suavely side-stepping her enquiry and taking another sip. Ah, so he was loosening up a bit, she noted. He was much more at ease, now, smiling and relaxed in his body language. She was glad they seemed to have sunk into a comfortableness, but it was obvious he was going to make her work for this.

"Ok, then," she gave in, smiling and turning her stool to face him. She took her first swig of the bittersweet concoction and felt it slide down her throat. "Start talking."

"You first," he requested, turning, too, to face her. He rested his hands on his thighs and stared hard into her, as if he were trying to uncover something about her before even asking. And he kind of was. "Why did you approach me at the ball?"

"I don't really know," she shrugged. "You reminded me of someone."

"Who?"

"Myself, when I was younger," she clarified, taking another sip. "This is good," she nodded, holding up the drink.

"How old are you now?" he asked, provoked by her response. He suddenly realized that he'd only assumed she was around his age, maybe even younger. Some women were good at hiding their years, though. He was now wondering if maybe he'd misjudged.

"35," she answered, quelling his concern. "You?"

"36. What did you mean, then, by 'when you were younger'?"

"Well, I've been going to those things almost half my life. I'm used to it. You looked kind of scared, though, and I hadn't ever seen you there before. Who do you work for?" she asked, realizing that was something else she didn't know about him. She noticed him tense a bit at the question, averting his eyes.

"Um, well, you know how it is. I just started. Not really sure if it's going to last," he answered vaguely, hoping to a God he didn't believe in that the answer was enough for her. She seemed slightly confused but satisfied.

"Believe me, I know the feeling," she scoffed, somewhat bitterly and nostalgically, blunting the harshness of the statement with another sip. She was beginning to feel the alcohol go to her head as the glass emptied before her.

"What about you?" he asked, hoping to turn the focus toward her. "What do you do?" "I'm an investment banker. I work at the Trust Building. To be honest, I really don't even belong at those things. My boss makes me go for show. They're put on for all the hot-shot, old money investors."

As Rachel rambled on, Ross' mind wandered. Wait, she actually worked AT the Trust Building? For the Bank of Manhattan? Shit. He knew most of the people ther that night were investors, but he wasn't sure who worked where or for whom. The Trust Building was the one they were currently working. Mixing business with pleasure was never good. Neither was fraternizing with the enemy, so to speak, though he was sure he'd never be able to see the woman sitting beside as his 'enemy'. Not with those eyes…those lips…that skin.

"Ross?" she prodded, noticing the detached, daydream look in his eyes and the way he was staring at her. Not that she really minded. His gaze could cut glass. It was like he was looking through her.

"Huh?"

"Is there anything else you want to ask me?" she asked, her voice softening to almost a flirtatious tone, her eyelashes batting slightly.

Watching her, his heartbeat slowed some and he began to fall back into that comfortable lull they'd found before, now that the conversation had turned away from business. He found it hard to register what she was saying, however, now that he'd noticed the way her dress dipped down so low in the back, revealing a broad expanse of smooth tanned skin in a V-shape that stopped just above her ass. Her taunt back muscles shifted beneath her skin and his eyes as she moved on the chair. He knew she was watching him watch her— take her in. He didn't care. He also knew this could potentially be very bad news— consorting with the other team— but he didn't care about that, either. In that instant, all he saw was her, and all he heard was the faint drawl of music coming from the dusty jukebox in the corner, and all he felt was this moment. For reasons intangible to him, he extended his arm to her.

"Yeah. Will you dance with me?"

Her eyes widened a little, astonished by both the suddenness of the question and the certainty in his voice. He said it with such an even confidence, like he knew she'd say yes. And she did.

"Yes," she agreed, smiling bashfully, taking his hand as she slipped off the stool.

They found an open space in the middle of the bar, amidst the smoke and the crowded tables and the broken windows and the dusty hardwood floor, hardly romantic by anyone's account, and he slid her into his arms. And a peaceful calm came over them that neither had felt since they could remember. He placed one hand at the small of her back and the other atop one of hers. She rested her head against his chest and smiled, allowing herself to close her eyes, the oddest epiphany washing over her.

She'd never felt this safe before.

Meanwhile, as he softly stroked the exposed skin at the small of her back with his thumb, he clenched his eyes shut and exhaled deeply, not ever wanting to let her go but simultaneously not ever having been so afraid of hurting someone in his entire life. 


	3. Chapter 3

NOTE: The sex in this chapter is unprotected. In reality, engaging in an unprotected sexual act with a stranger is both irresponsible and dangerous. I don't condone it, but will be incorporating it into the story to illustrate a certain degree of impetuousness and volatility.

You should always expect a potentially non-monogamous partner to use protection.

NOTE: Due to popular demand, the names have been changed back. If it doesn't bother you, it doesn't bother me. I thought the new approach might read more smoothly. Apparently not.  
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

6117 Park Avenue Apartment 2000 New York City November 5, 2004 2:24 a.m.

The pair of rain-drenched near-strangers stumbled from the elevator onto the polished hardwood of the Park Avenue Penthouse apartment. They leaned against one another to take the edge off their spinning heads.

Maybe that 6th Singapore Sling should have been the last, he considered. He'd known 7 was too many. Either way, the thought was suspended by his sudden realization of the grandeur and extravagance of the room he'd just stepped into.

"Wow…" he breathed under his breath, stopping dead in his tracks to gawk at the apartment, mouth opened, like a child in Disney Land. Lucinda could only smile behind her soaked hair, secretly thrilled and proud that he was obviously impressed. With all those shots in her, though, and her subsequent loss of inhibition and reason, she was almost giggling at the notion.

"You're leaking," was all she managed to say, still half giggling, pointing to where water from his dripping jacket was pooling in a puddle on the floor at his feet.

"Well, look at that! You know, I AM leaking," he explicated, the liquor causing him to react and gesture a little more wildly than he normally would. His speech was also a little slurred. He removed the tuxedo jacket and she watched. She was standing a few yards away in the kitchen, leaning unintentionally seductively against the island in the middle, her dress clinging to her wet body like Paper Mache. She watched as he peeled the coat away from himself, revealing the soaked-through dress shirt he'd been wearing underneath. The sleeves were still rolled up like they'd been at the bar, but the unhooked bowtie had been lost somewhere during the evening's activities, and now the collar was slightly popped on one side. His hair was disheveled and he was sporting the beginnings of a 5-o'clock shadow and part of his shirttail was hanging out in the front and his pants were a little loose, but God help her was he attractive. She couldn't take her eyes off him. She'd blamed it on the liquor at first, but that excuse was now seeming less and less plausible. No, her attraction to him was something more…

Something dangerous.

She watched him shuffle around the entryway for a few seconds before spotting the coat rack in the corner and hanging up his jacket. His shirt was see-through from the dampness, so she had no trouble making out the contracting and stretching of his back muscles as he reached for the top hook on the stand. There's something about him, she thought. He somehow seemed simultaneously vulnerable and in control— like he knew and experienced more than he'd ever let on. He was almost…tortured. She was skeptical but curious about him. He electrified her— awakened her— and she wasn't sure why. She wanted to find out.

When he was done hanging up his jacket, he joined her in the kitchen, standing to face her on the opposite side of the island. It was his turn to size her up, and she let him, standing still as stone, neither speaking. She watched him watch her, tracked his eyes as they raked their way up and down her body, inquisitive but almost nervous. She thought his hands might be shaking, but she couldn't really tell. He gulped noticeably as his gaze fell on the curve of her hip, rounding out so seamlessly from the small of her waist. He watched the drops of water slide over her tanned skin, gliding down her chest and into the valley between her breasts, eventually disappearing underneath the black fabric of her dress. When his eyes finally returned to hers, holding her gaze, they both remained speechless, their breathing a little more strained than before.

"So…" he began, drumming his fingers against the counter, trying to ease some of the tension eradiating from the steamy moment.

"So," she echoed, her voice small and almost bashful, her hair falling into her eyes as she turned her head down slightly. He thought he saw her holding back a smile.

"This is a nice place," he complimented, looking around and nodding in confirmation of his assessment. At this, she let out a small chuckle. "What?" he enquired, confused.

"Nothing," she whispered, looking down again, shaking her head. God, he thought, staring at her. She was so unbelievably adorable. She probably didn't even know it. Maybe now was his chance to get a little closer…

"No, what is it," he pressed, walking around the counter to stand beside her. He was inches away from her, and though her head was slanted down, she knew he was right there. She felt his presence like an intense weight pressing down on her, withering under his gaze. Goosebumps chilled her skin. She looked up at him, hugging herself and rubbing her arms absentmindedly. Her eyes narrowed, sizing him up, rolling something over inside her head.

"Who are you, Ross?" she asked, enigmatically. He cocked an eyebrow at her and shifted his weight nervously, a little confused by the question. He crossed his arms over his chest, a small attempt at self-preservation.

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"I mean...I don't know," she admitted, probably too tipsy to carry on a conversation this heavy or articulate herself. She tried a different approach, still holding his gaze intensely. "Why did you give me that card?"

"Because I wanted to see you again," he answered honestly.

"Why?" she pressed, tilting her head to the side in curiosity. She wasn't trying to play games with him. She really wanted to know. If she were being honest with herself, she wasn't really sure why she'd approached him at the ball. She'd been inextricably drawn to him. She couldn't explain it. Maybe he could…

"Because you're beautiful," he stated simply, not dropping her gaze or cracking a smile, his face as stoic and unreadable as it'd been the first time they'd talked.

"A lot of things are beautiful," she reasoned, blushing a little and smiling, rubbing her arms again, but more from self-consciousness now than chilliness. He felt himself being physically drawn to her. Bracing one arm against the counter, he leaned into her, his mouth mere centimeters from her ear. He felt her tremble when his breath tickled her neck.

"Not to me," he whispered, his lips just barely grazing her earlobe, so faintly that it may have been unintentional. She sensed the bittersweet smell of alcohol on his breath, mixed with the muskiness of his cologne. It intoxicated her. She didn't dare move.

"Are you going to kiss me?" she asked, and he'd have actually laughed aloud at the endearing forthrightness of the question if the moment weren't so serious. Instead, he smiled quietly to himself at her aptitude for charm.

"I don't even know you," he pointed out. She slowly but steadily raised her head to meet his gaze, her eyes the brightest shade of blue he'd ever seen, glossy with seriousness. She swallowed deeply.

"Do you want to kiss me?" she rephrased. She was now standing with her back to the counter, bracing herself against it with her hands behind her. His hands were on either side of her, also braced on the counter, trapping her in the makeshift cage of his arms.

"I probably shouldn't," he pointed out, knowing she had no idea how true that really was. She didn't know the half of it. If his boss knew what he was doing…

"That's not what I asked," she deadpanned, and he felt her push her hips slightly forward, brushing against his crotch, and it was all over.

His lips were on hers before either of them even knew it was happening, assaulting them with a bruising pressure. His hands cupped her cheeks and he moved his mouth over hers, his teeth grazing and biting her lips. She moaned into his mouth as her hands busied themselves in his damp hair, her fingernails scratching at his scalp. He pressed his body into hers, pinning her hard against the counter.

She moved her hands from his hair to his chest, smoothing them down the front of his shirt until they reached his sternum, where they moved around to grip his back. Somehow, his shirt was now completely untucked, the top few buttons having been ripped off in the commotion. Without breaking the kiss, she began unbuttoning the remaining buttons, sliding the dress shirt off his shoulders and letting it flutter to the floor, working next on the undershirt until it, too, was discarded and he was standing shirtless in her kitchen. She grazed her fingernails over the bare flesh of his back, causing him to shutter with the simultaneous pleasure and pain of it. When he pressed his crotch more firmly into her hip, letting her feel how hard she'd made him, the intensity and neediness of the encounter hastened. Both began tearing at one another's remaining garments until her kitchen looked like a graveyard of discarded dress clothes, leaving him in only his boxers and her in a matching black bra and panties set. For the first time since all of this began, they broke the kiss, panting and gasping for breath.

He moved his lips to her neck, sucking and nipping at the sensitive flesh there, eliciting a throaty moan from her as she wrapped her arms around his back and tilted her head to give him better access. He slid his hands underneath her ass and lifted her up in one swift motion, setting her down on the counter and insinuating himself between her thighs as he moved his mouth down to her shoulder. Through slit eyelids, she looked down between them to see him straining against his boxers.

She leaned back with her arms on the counter behind her and opened her thighs more, and he took what she gave him. Moving his mouth down to her shoulder, he braced his left hand on her thigh and placed the right one at the vertex of her legs, sliding a single graceful middle finger into her, feeling her muscles tighten around him as he pushed as far as possible. She writhed and bucked her hips beneath his ministrations, hissing and groaning as he slid another one in, curving them up and in, rubbing against that place that made her muscles involuntarily contract.

For a moment, he stopped kissing her shoulder long enough to look at her face, watching her pupils dilate and her teeth bite down hard on her lip to stop her from screaming. She was so fucking hot. For a second, her eyes locked with his. It only lasted a moment before she had to squeeze them tightly shut against the blinding pleasure, but it was enough to sustain him. And provoke him.

He lowered himself to his knees and removed his fingers to replace them with his mouth, working his tongue and lips over her, sucking and licking and biting until she could no longer hold it in and was quite literally screaming.

"UghhhhhGodrightthere," she blabbered unintelligibly, not entirely sure what she was saying but not caring, her hips involuntarily thrusting forward into his face. She grabbed handfuls of his hair to steady herself, feeling the waves of pleasure building inside her, knowing she was seconds away from falling over the edge. "Oh GOD!" she screamed out when it was over, and he rose from his knees just in time to catch her as her weight buckled and she fell against him.

Not wanting to waste any time, he lifted her from the counter, his arms hooked under her legs that were straddling him, and ran towards the bedroom, his lips pinned to hers the whole time. Little did he know, he'd just given her something she though she'd never have again.

She landed on her back on the bed with a "thud", the springs giving beneath her weight, and he was on top of her in no time, throwing her thighs roughly apart so he could settle between them. The hard, hot length of him pressed into her stomach and she moaned into his mouth in anticipation. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feeling of him removing her bra and underwear, wincing with pleasure when his mouth closed around her right nipple.

"Fuck me," she demanded between pants and gasps, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist and rubbing her crotch hard against his. He groaned at the heat of the words, sucking harder at her skin, clawing at her ass and grinding back against her. He tore his boxers from his hips in one motion and thrust himself inside her.

"Ahhh fuck," he gasped, hissing as he slid deep inside her, her inner muscles clenching around him, choking him. It was all he could do to hold on…to not lose it just yet.

She clenched her thighs even more tightly against his sides and folded her arms around his back, tangling her fingers in his hair as he pumped in and out of her. She moved her hands down to his ass and dug her fingernails in to urge him on, scraping them over the tight skin there. After nor much longer, she could feel herself beginning to come again, and she bit into his shoulder to let him know.

"Oh Godddd," she groaned, dragging out the word as she plummeted over the edge of coherency, his release quickly trailing hers. Her body relaxed like dead weight against the mattress, his frame pinning her down.

After a few seconds, he rolled off of her and collapsed on his back beside her, both of them coated in sweat and panting heavily. She turned her head to look at him, at an utter loss for words. What was that? Where had it come from? And, most perplexingly, why had this near stranger given her more pleasure than all the boyfriends she could ever remember?

"Thank you," she whispered feebly, feeling like he should know the true magnitude of what he'd just done for her. He was obviously a little confused.

"For what?" he replied, having turned his head to meet her gaze, his lips turning up slightly in a faint smile. She didn't really know how to reply tactfully, though she wanted him to know. She wasn't sure why. She just did.

"I, um…I haven't…it's been a while since I've been able to…" she blabbered, becoming increasingly embarrassed with each word. Luckily, judging by the mixture of surprise and pride painted across his face, he understood.

"Wow…um…you're welcome," he answered, with just as much honesty and sincerity. To stay in keeping with the poignant moment, he reached out and laced his fingers with hers, smiling comfortingly. Then, he realized something possibly even more poignant, and it both excited and scared him at the same time.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept with a woman and hadn't wanted to leave immediately after.

With that thought, he pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, motioning for her to join him. This act answered the million dollar question she'd been secretly wondering since they'd first shed their clothes: Would he spend the night? She wasn't even sure which she'd have preferred…until now.

Underneath the cotton sheets and the fluffy down comforter, he lay on his back and pulled her to nestle in beside him, his arms wrapping protectively around her back and her head falling against his chest. Her hair was in his face and it smelled like cocoanut. She slung her left thigh over his hips and intertwined her legs with his. She closed her eyes and breathed him in.

"Can I ask you something?" he whispered against her ear, his thumb tracing lazy circles over her hip bone.

"Mmhmm," she murmured. She was half asleep, already.

"Why can't you…you know." At this, her eyes fluttered open. She was, needless to say, a little caught off guard, not sure of what to make of his asking.

"Well, obviously, I can," she joked, poking her elbow into his stomach playfully. He chuckled and nodded, but did not relent.

"No, really. I mean, I know it's kind of a personal question, but—"

"Yeah," she interrupted, her voice small but her tone firm. "It is." She didn't want to offend or embarrass him, but she thought that can of worms was probably more 5th date material. Considering what they did tonight didn't even really constitute as a first date, she decided it could wait. He, on the other hand, quickly became quiet, obviously a little ashamed for asking. "Hey," she reassured, patting his hand, "it's okay. Another time." He nodded and dropped it. A few minutes later, it was her turn to ask the question. "What do you do, again?" He would have panicked if it hadn't been for that innocent look in her eyes. It told him that she wasn't pressing or interrogating him. She really wanted to know. She was just as curious about him as he was about her.

"What do you mean? I told you before, didn't I?" he answered, as diplomatically as possible. She shook her head.

"No," she answered simply. Shit. He thought he'd evaded her question suavely enough the first time that she wouldn't actually notice the absence of an answer. He'd apparently underestimated her. He began to feel the nervous tension building inside him, warning him that these were dangerous waters. Then again, he pretty much felt that constantly when he was around her. She made him nervous…but in an oddly good way.

"Well, I um…I deal with the finances involved in importing and exporting," he finally answered, not entirely lying. He did import and export…illegally…at the expense of her company.

"Mmm," she nodded, closing her eyes, lulling her head to the side a little. She was obviously on her way to sleep again. Her head was spinning a little. Whew. Maybe he'd answered well enough this time that she wouldn't ask again.

He waited until he could hear and feel the shallow regularity of her breathing, signifying that she'd fallen asleep, until he even attempted to drift off. Funny, he thought to himself, playing with her hair. He'd always passed out immediately afterwards with Cindy. For some reason, he'd felt inclined to watch her sleep for a while.

When he closed his eyes, his thumb was still stroking her hip.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

On the street outside 6117 Park Avenue New York City November 5, 2004 3:51 a.m.

The man in the black trench coat lowered the binoculars from his eyes, frowning disappointedly. He shook his head in disapproval before turning to spit out the half rolled-down window of the old Buick.

"That's trouble," he grunted to the slightly younger man in the passenger seat with the cigarette to his lips.

"Bill know?" the younger man asked, exhaling smoke through his nose. The older man shook his head, smiling deviously.

"Not yet."

"How'd you find out?"

"Tip-off from that little shit-head Jerry. He might be a pussy, but he knows what's best for him," the older man spat.

"What'd you think Bill's going to do?" the younger man asked, flicking the finished butt of his cigarette out the cracked window and rolling it up. The older man threw the binoculars over his shoulder into the backseat and started the ignition.

"Hell if I know," he shrugged, buckling his seatbelt. "But those kids are in a world of trouble." 


End file.
